by Megan Bryce
“But not us.”
He was silent a long moment, then finally his lips tilted northward and he dipped his head toward her.
“Not us, Miss Twiggy Blackstock. I assume you will be coming to enjoy the next lecture series as well.”
She cocked her head. “I wasn’t. What is it about?”
“Trains. Steam trains, specifically.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I will.”
He stood, waiting for her to rise, then followed until she met up with her maid.
He bowed. “Perhaps I will save you a seat.”
Miss Twiggy Blackstock adjusted her hat and said, “Perhaps I will save one for you.”
There was another letter waiting for George when he arrived home and he tracked down his valet to thrust it at him.
“I told you to refuse the post.”
“Yes, sir. It is from your father.”
“Yes. I specifically do not want any correspondence from him. I specifically do not want any correspondence from anyone.”
“Yes, sir. Should I read it for you?”
George crumpled the letter and found the nearest fire. “Collin, if you looked any less like your sister, I would throttle you.”
“If I looked any less like my sister, you wouldn’t have hired me as your valet when I hid in your carriage.”
“I should send you back home.”
“Five years later? The threat has grown old, sir.”
It had. He should have sent the boy back home when he was still a boy and not a man. Should have sent him home before he’d got his first glimpse of a London woman. Should have sent him home before London had shown him all that was missing in the country.
George stared at the fire and not into good, kind eyes. “Any news from home?”
“…another girl. They’ve named her Winifred.”
“And your brother?”
“Still a pompous prig. Sir.”
George nodded. “No more correspondences.”
Collin sighed. “Yes, sir.”
George went to his club to smoke. And be bored.
He didn’t know when life had lost its sparkle. Didn’t know when everything he’d once found pleasure in had become dull.
He thought of the country and his home, and wished he could go back. Go back to his youth, go back to his family.
Go back and rewrite the past.
But that was all impossible and he had no interest in going back to what currently was.
So he smoked. And thought of absolutely nothing and talked to absolutely no one.
No one hailed him, no one came over to bother him, not now that Sinclair was off to India again.
George was happy that no one bothered him.
Happy.
But he thought of muddy eyes that liked to spar with him. That liked to irritate him, and he thought she must like to irritate everyone. Liked to poke and rile when civilized men and women knew how to keep the peace.
And then he remembered her alter ego, Miss Apple Blossom, and thought she must know how to keep the peace as well.
Must know how to be sweet and womanly, she just didn’t like to.
George puffed and smiled, forgetting that he was bored and lonely and instead imagined again the surprise Mr. Moffat would wake up to on his wedding day.
The harpy had saved a seat for him the next week and when she picked up her leaflet to make room for him, he said, “This is perilously close to indecent, Miss Twiggy. What would Mr. Moffat say?”
She cocked her head and really thought about it.
“Do you think he would be worried that you were poaching on his territory?”
“If I was Mr. Moffat, I would be worried.”
“You men are so very strange.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Are you poaching?”
“You were the one who saved me a seat. If anyone is poaching, it is you.”
“Oh, good. Because I’m not, you may rest assured. Now, if you were engaged, it might be poaching but in your case I think the correct term would be hunting.”
He coughed. “Are you hunting me?”
“No, I was just pointing out the correct term. I’m engaged, Mr. St. Clair, please try to remember.”
“If you acted like you were engaged, I might be able to.”
She shifted in her seat to study him. “Would you be worth hunting? Are women lined up trying to catch you?”
“No.”
“Not the eldest son of so-and-so?”
“No.”
She faced forward again. “Ah, well. Better luck for the future.”
“I have two older brothers. And a twin.”
“Good God, there are three more of you? Your poor mother.”
“Dead.”
“Oh. Yes. Mine, too.”
He nodded and they said not another word. No condolences, not when they both knew condolences were worthless.
She rustled her leaflet and finally asked, “Three brothers. Any sisters?”
“I was spared. You?”
She fought a smile. “If half-sisters counted, I would have three.”
“You don’t like them?”
“I’m sure they are wonderful people now that they are out of leading strings. I haven’t seen them in a long time, and stop me if you’ve heard this story before. Mother dies, Father remarries, new mother insists on breeding repeatedly so eldest daughter goes to live with her mother’s sister.”
He nodded. “The story is as old as time itself. I assume your aunt then treats you very poorly.”
“Oh, no. She, and my uncle, spoil me rotten.”
“That was my second guess.”
“They weren’t able to have children, you see. So they didn’t realize that I was a handful.”
His laugh surprised him. “How could they have missed it?”
The next week, he got there first and she huffed when she saw him already seated.
“You are too early. I’ll have to leave the night before to get here before you.”
“You must have quite the distance to travel. Your sacrifice for the future is impressive.”
“No one cares more for my future than I do.”
“You have a fiancé, and an uncle who spoils you rotten. My guess is that there is a line of people who care for your future at least as much as you do.”
Honora opened her mouth for a scathing retort, and then closed it. Because how could one softly spoken truth make her stomach clench with anger and shame? How could it make her feel ungrateful?
A long moment passed as they sat in silence and when her emotions were back under control, she said, “My fiancé and my uncle are both fine and wonderful men, but they don’t have that need, that drive, to want more.”
“And your father?”
“My father is too busy with his new family. If it was up to him, he would leave my mother’s portion in her majesty’s service for a measly five percent.”
“Many widows and orphans live on that measly five percent.”
“I know. I don’t want to be one of them. And perhaps you’re right. There is a line of men who care for my future; they just see it differently than I do.”
“Ah, well, that is different then. And something I have experience with myself.”
She remained quiet and met his eyes, and he said off-handedly, “My father.”
“All fathers, I suspect. Did he want you to go into the military?”
“No. I did exactly what he wanted.”
“Since there are few paths for a younger son from a fine family, I think you’ve trained to be a man of the cloth,” she said and his eyebrows flew up in surprise.
He looked at her. Looked at her and saw her and Honora’s heart raced.
She said, “Only those who’ve trained for it can invoke guilt, shame, and ingratitude with a single phrase. Only those certain of their place in God’s kingdom can be so condescending and self-righteous. The rest of us muddle along the best we can.”
“Is this yo
u muddling along?”
She held up her leaflet. “No. This is me studying.”
This time it was he who fumed silently in his seat and she didn’t let him get his emotions back under control.
She said, “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You’ve already decreed it. I doubt anyone dares contradict you.”
“I have no doubt you would contradict me with great pleasure if you could.”
“You know, Miss Twiggy. Though I barely met the man, I find I have great sympathy for your poor Mr. Moffat.”
She said, “Behold, we count them happy which endure, Mr. St. Clair. James 5:11.”
Megan BryceTo Tempt The Saint
Three
George did not stay long after the lecture to argue with Miss Twiggy.
He kept hearing her confident tone declaring him to be a man of the cloth as if it was written on the lines of his face, the timbre of his voice.
I have no doubt you would contradict me with great pleasure if you could, and damned if she wasn’t right.
He was a man of science. Of the future. Not a man forced to believe and parrot what was written down in a book centuries ago.
And yet, he was.
Or should have been.
But he’d returned home from university to find that his sickly twin had been nursed for the last few months by the love of George’s life. That she was, instead of waiting for George, quietly engaged to his brother.
His father had sat him down. “It is a good match for everyone, George.”
And George had told his father, shock still making his voice weak, “But I love her. And she loves me. I am sure of it.”
“Perhaps. But she loves Henry as well. She is a sweet, country girl with no ambition and Henry will stay here, a country gent, and they will have a small, quiet, contented life.”
George had whispered, “Father.”
“Go to London,” his father had said. “Enjoy yourself for a little while now that you’re done with school. When the right living becomes available, I’ll send for you.”
George hadn’t gone. He’d cornered Alice and begged her to run away with him.
And she’d patted his cheek and looked at George with good, kind eyes. “You will always hold a place in my heart, George. But I love Henry.”
Then, George had gone after his brother.
Henry had been born thirty minutes earlier making him the older and George the baby of the family– but it had always been the other way around. Henry had always been weak and sickly, had always been babied and protected. Had always been loved, by everyone.
George had locked eyes with him. “You knew. You knew I loved her.”
“I knew.”
“And you asked for her anyway?”
“I loved her, too. You just never saw it.”
George had stayed for the wedding, he didn’t know why. Except maybe he had to see with his own eyes.
Had to see because he couldn’t simply believe.
Had stayed, hoping to see regret in either of their eyes, but all he saw was happiness. And a love that should have been his.
He’d finally left when Alice had started feeling ill in the mornings. Gone to London just like his father had suggested and then had refused every living offered him since.
Even George agreed that his father had been patient beyond words. Five long years of support until that very afternoon when his banker welcomed him into his office and said, “Your allowance has been cut off.”
George nodded.
Good show, Father. Good show.
George trudged home and when he arrived, Collin was polishing boots.
George watched for a long moment and then sat.
“Very well, tell me what was in the letters.”
“Sir?”
“I know you opened them. Any self-respecting valet would.”
Collin continued to polish.
George said, “I assume you knew my funds were to be cut off.”
Collin sighed. “He did it?”
George nodded, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. “He did it.”
“All is not lost, sir. He’s found a living for you.”
“Oh, God.”
“Manchester.”
George said again, “Oh, God.”
“Yes, sir.”
George decided he didn’t need to open his eyes ever again. He felt as if the very marrow had been sucked from his bones.
“When?”
“He wants you to come home first.”
“He would.”
“I have…appropriated…some funds for the trip,” Collin said and George nearly smiled.
“You would.”
“Shall I begin packing?”
George said, “Oh, God.”
Mr. Moffat was finally getting a bit nervous about his fiancé’s continued interest in steam lectures and kept trying to talk her out of going. When that proved impossible, he asked, “Shall I accompany you this week?”
“No! Of course not. You were bored silly last time.”
“I worry about you. Flitting about all by yourself.”
“I have my maid. And really, Mr. Moffat, I go straight to the lecture hall and then straight back. You saw the kind of people steam interests. It is not a fearsome bunch.”
“But there were hardly any women present. I’m not sure it’s seemly for you to go.”
Mr. Moffat loved that word and Honora had to duck her face for a moment before answering.
“What is unseemly about education? And anyway, no one cares that I am a woman. No one has ever bothered me.”
“What about that man who talked to you?”
“You mean Mr. St. Clair? There is no need to worry. He is as sour as always; I think it a permanent affliction.”
Mr. Moffat said astutely, “Nothing goes better with lemons than sugar.”
Miss Blackstock simpered and tinkled a little laugh. “Mr. Moffat, you are so poetic. But there are many things sugar goes with. Strawberries, cherries. Oh! Shall I make you another tart when I get back from my lecture?”
She arrived nearly half an hour early for the lecture but before she could enter the hall and make sure she had bested Mr. St. Clair, a youngish boy tugged at her dress with his filthy hands and said, “Miss Twiggy?”
Honora stopped, preparing herself to fight him off and saying cautiously, “Yes?”
“Here.” He thrust a folded up piece of paper at her. “The cove said you’d give me something for it.”
She took it, unfolding it to read the name signed evenly and perfectly legible at the bottom, and her heart thumped.
She folded it back up quickly and dug in her reticule for a coin.
“I’m sure the cove gave you something already but thank you for keeping it clean.”
He snatched the coin out of her hand and ran off, and Honora went inside the lecture hall. She took a leaflet and when she was settled and she couldn’t take one more minute of imagining what George St. Clair could possibly write to her about, she unfolded the letter and placed it inside her leaflet to read surreptitiously.
One minute later, the excitement had been replaced with something else.
Not dread. How could she dread Mr. St. Clair leaving? He was nothing to her except an entertaining interlude.
Not anger. He wasn’t foiling any plan of hers.
Perhaps disappointment.
Regret?
She looked at his even handwriting and knew Mr. St. Clair had felt the same something that she did.
A single gentleman sending a note to an engaged woman was perilously close to indecent and their relationship, if it could even be called that, did not require him to inform her of his imminent departure from London.
For good. For ever.
She stared at the podium. Then down at her leaflet.
Steam. Trains. The future.
Her future.
Honora Kempe got up quietly and left the lecture hall.
It took t
wo weeks to get rid of Mr. Moffat.
A few temper tantrums.
A couple dinners, handmade.
Honora thought it most likely that her blackened toast and the resulting tantrum when Mr. Moffat could not get his teeth through it had been the final straw but eventually Mr. Moffat could take the thought of his future no longer.
Honora had sobbed and screamed and hysterically shouted how she was ruined and generally made Mr. Moffat absolutely sure that he was willing to pay any price to get rid of her.
And when Uncle Hubert stepped in with his quiet voice and calm acceptance, Honora had collapsed onto the sofa and cried into her handkerchief.
She cried and cried, never hearing the negotiation. Cried for herself, cried for poor Mr. Moffat and the five gentleman who had preceded him. Cried for her aunt and uncle.
Cried for her mother, gone so long ago.
Cried for the home she missed.
Cried knowing this game was all she would ever have.
Honora cried until she was all cried out.
She took a few shaky breaths and when she heard nothing, slowly lifted her head to find her uncle alone, his eyes closed. Just here in the room with her.
Honora’s eyes prickled again and she blinked them back. She wouldn’t cry because she wasn’t alone. Wouldn’t cry because her aunt and uncle, for some reason, had taken her in and loved her when no one else would.
Uncle Hubert asked, “Feeling better?”
She nodded though he couldn’t see it and patted her sore eyes. “I do so hate Miss Blackstock.”
“She is indeed very volatile,” he said and Honora’s laugh was wet and watery.
She wiped her nose on her soaked handkerchief and pushed herself into a more upright position.
“I believe it would do us all good to take a little break, Honora. Be ourselves for a while. With Mr. Moffat’s donations, we have enough for a small cottage in the country. Enough for bread and cheese and the occasional joint of meat.”
They had enough. Just enough. The word reminded her every time of what had been stolen from her and she said, “Letitia.”
Uncle Hubert opened his eyes. “Still?”